


the laws of moral reciprocity

by NotAllThoseWhoWander



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-04 08:17:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6649762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotAllThoseWhoWander/pseuds/NotAllThoseWhoWander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you're a 25 year-old adjunct Political Science professor with scheming colleagues and intimidating bosses, falling for a whip-smart student is a terrible idea. </p><p>Alexander Hamilton follows his heart just as much as he does his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the laws of moral reciprocity

**Author's Note:**

> before you start reading this fic: the relationship that this fic focuses on is between a college student and a professor. although alex and john are both consenting adults, relationships between people in positions of authority and those under that authority are always inherently inappropriate and manipulative. student-professor relationships are unhealthy and (in the united states) violate title IX. in no way am i advocating for student-professor relationships or insinuating that these relationships are ethical. that being said, that's what this fic is about. but anyways, i hope that y'all dig this fic, and comments and reviews are always appreciated!

**CHAPTER ONE**

 

The B train is running late, so Alexander has fifteen extra minutes to stand nervously on the platform, drinking burnt bodega coffee (five sugar packets, because the bodega was out of cream at seven-thirty on a Monday morning) and reciting the beginning of his first lecture in his head. 

_Morning, everyone. My name is Alexander Hamilton, and I'll be teaching Political Science 100 this semester. This is my first time teaching a college class, so bear with me—_

_—_ No. No way. He can't lead with that, not when he's young enough to be mistaken for a TA or grad student. He silently rehearses a few other introductions, trying to strike a balance between easygoing and impressive. When he had TA'd for Poli Sci classes in undergrad, he'd always fallen into the good-natured-but-intimidating archetype. The freshmen hadn't exactly loved him. But that's six years and two degrees behind him, and now Alex is almost twenty-six and taking a full-time teaching position at a respected university and he'll be teaching three classes a day and it feels  _good_. And his train is here, and he's planned this commute well enough that he won't be more than five minutes late to meet with the chair of the department before his first class. 

Alex throws his coffee cup at the nearest trashcan, missing spectacularly, and has to push through a throng of morning commuters to throw the cup away properly. As the train rattles out of Washington Heights, northbound, he glances at his blurry reflection in the window and feels a jittery mixture of elation and nervousness. The caffeine probably has something to do with it.

* * *

Yorktown University occupies a sprawling campus in a nice suburban neighborhood just out of the city, but it's close enough to the Bronx that apartments only a few blocks away have bars on the windows. The university campus, a maze of brick and stone buildings, looks like the kind of old British estate that the brooding romantic lead in an Austen novel would own. Alex has to consult a map on the side of the admissions building before finding the Poli Sci department, and half-jogs across campus to avoid being conspicuously late. Two flights of stairs later, he's standing outside the department chair's office, feeling like he's back in undergrad and waiting for a professor's office hours to start. 

"Alexander?" The door is ajar, a deep voice issuing from the depths of the office. "Come in. Shut the door behind you."

Alex does so. The office is clean and full of morning light. George Washington is writing something in a black notebook and barely glances up when Alex enters. There's a wooden chair in front of the desk, so Alex puts down his messenger bag—green canvas, probably embarrassingly similar to most of the bags that his students will have—and waits. Washington finishes, looks up, smiles. Extends a hand. 

Alex shakes. Washington's grip is hard, just short of being painful. 

"How do you feel?" 

Alex glances at the clock. His first class starts in less than an hour. 

"Nervous. Excited. I feel like I'm back in undergrad, being a TA again." 

Washington raises his eyebrows enough to make Alex immediately regret the comment. "You'll find that this is a lot different than any student-teacher position. Some of your students might not understand why someone just out of graduate school is teaching them political science. Most have been told about the nature of your position, and most know that Professor Keen has," he pauses for a fraction of a second, "left the school." 

"Of course," Alex says, covering. "I didn't mean—I feel fully prepared. All I meant was that I have experience working with undergrads, and I think they'll find that reassuring." 

"I'm sure." Washington says. He's handsome, in a respectable-older-guy kind of way. Alex tries not to notice that he's wearing an actual suit, the jacket slung over the back of his chair. He suddenly feels totally unprofessional in black jeans and a kind-of-nice blazer. Washington is talking again, about how to reinforce the class attendance policies and academic honesty regulations (yeah, right, like kids in a 100-level class aren't gonna use Wikipedia and SparkNotes every night), but Alex is only half-concentrating. Nervousness is crawling up his chest and into his throat, thick and choking. 

"I see potential in you, Alex." Washington says with an air of finality. "Given the last-minute nature of your hiring, and the ordeal with Keens, there are some people in this department who don't feel the same way."

 _Great_. Alex almost scoffs because of course the other faculty probably think he's a total fucking idiot. Or that Washington is, for hiring him. Or there's some residual animosity left over from whatever the hell happened between Joe Keens and the rest of the department (Alex has read every link related to Joe Keens that he could find online, but nothing reveals why the university would suddenly fire a tenured, well-respected professor). 

"Well," Washington says, and stands up. "Let's prove them wrong, Hamilton." 

* * *

 

By the time his students start to file into the lecture hall at 9:30, Alex has already been organizing his lecture plans at the podium for a good fifteen minutes. A few people sit down in the first few rows, but most take seats in the middle or back of the hall. Alex writes his name on the chalkboard, followed by  _Political Science 100_. When the clock at the back of the lecture hall hits 9:35 and there are roughly a hundred students present, he clears his throat and steps behind the fake-wood podium. 

"Welcome to Political Science 100. My name is Alexander Hamilton. You can call me Alexander. As you might have noticed, I'm pretty young." He pauses, waiting for—laughter, maybe? Something from the class. Instead he's met by blank stares. "I'm about six months out of graduate school, so bear with me. Teaching hasn't been my gig before." 

And, fuck, maybe that wasn't a good lead. 

"But that's not to say that this is going to be an informal class or an easy A." The class looks unimpressed. "This is going to be a tightly-run ship. Respect me, and I'll respect you." 

He pauses, glances down at his lecture notes. "Let's get started." 

Nobody is, like, leaving or actively rebelling or rolling their eyes or throwing things at him. Alex takes this as a good sign. The first half of the lecture—a basic historical perspective of American political science—goes smoothly. A few students in the back row look halfway asleep, but it's easy enough to ignore. 

The problem is that when he asks questions—which aren't  _hard_ , because this is a 100-level class and most of the students are probably very new to political science—nobody raises their hand. When Alex asks about the lasting influence early American economics, most people look around nervously and avoid eye contact with him. He's about to try the age-old "anyone? anyone? Bueller?" shtick when a guy in the second row raises his hand.

"Yes?" Alex tries not to sound too excited that someone is actually _participating_. 

"The structure of early American economics relied heavily on Eurocentric class systems, and that structure ended up becoming a foundation for the modern American class system and political oligarchy." 

Alex's eyebrows arch of their own accord. The kid is slouched in his seat, wearing a blue hooded sweatshirt tugged up around his shoulders, curly dark hair pulled into a ponytail. He has the kind of effortless good looks that Alex always fell for in college: high cheekbones, probably an easygoing smile, probably—

"Yes." Alex breaks his own reverie, jolting himself back into the lecture hall and out of the vortex of the kid's unwavering gaze. "Very well-put."

The student lifts one shoulder in a kind of half-shrug. Alex returns to lecturing, pausing every few minutes to ask the class questions. A few more people volunteer, raising their hands hesitantly and providing him with blunt, few-word answers that barely hold up to the first response. Alex knows that it's inequitable to compare his students like this, and on the first day of class nonetheless. But he finds his gaze drawn magnetically towards the kid in the hooded sweatshirt, now sitting up a little straighter and watching Alex intently. 

The hour-long lecture passes quickly, much faster than Alex anticipated. At 10:30 he announces the reading assigned for next class and encourages everyone to either buy a textbook or borrow the reserved copy at the library, and then there's a scrum of chaos as the class stands up, gathering backpacks and checking cell phones. Alex starts to slide his lecture notes into his messenger bag, wondering if it's a good time to swing by the faculty lounge on the third floor and start introducing himself to his new colleagues.

"Could you sign this?" 

Alex looks up. The curly-haired kid is standing next to his desk, holding a sheet of paper. A dirty black backpack is slung over one shoulder. 

"It's an add-drop form." He hands it over. Alex glances at the name written across the top in neat, jagged penmanship. John Laurens.

"You're a Political Science major," he says approvingly. The kid—John—nods and smiles. "What year?"

"Junior," John replies. He and Alex make swift, intent eye contact. John glances away first.

"And you're just now taking Poli Sci 100?"

"It's a credits thing." John's voice hardens a little. "I came in with enough credits to graduate early, and I'm still on that track if I can overload on classes. Taking 100 levels is the easiest way to do that." 

Alex isn't sure if he should feel insulted or not—John just pretty clearly insinuated that this class is an easy A for him, a way of raising his major GPA and graduating a few semesters early—or disappointed that the most promising kid in the lecture hall is actually just here for extra credits.

"Well, I hope that you get _something_ useful out of this class," he says, signing the bottom of the add-drop form with a tight, intricate signature ( _A Hamilton_ , written in flowing cursive). "Even if it's just for overloading credits."

"Uh, that's not." John takes the form back, running his tongue over his teeth. "Sorry if that seemed like the implication. Some of my other professors suggested that I should take a class from you. They said that it would be a good opportunity."

Alex isn't sure what that means. He saves processing that comment for later, and swings his messenger bag over one shoulder. The last few students are filing out of the lecture hall. 

"Anyways, thanks." John slides the add-drop form into his backpack. He lifts his chin in a half-nod. "See you on Wednesday, Professor."

Alex watches him leave the lecture hall, taking two stairs at a time.  _Professor_. He likes the way the word feels on his tongue, solid and real, but it's like wearing a jacket too big for him.  _Professor Hamilton_ doesn't fit quite right. Not yet, at least. 

* * *

 

The third-floor faculty lounge is quiet and full of warm autumn sunlight. A few professors are reading magazines ( _Harper's_ and  _The Atlantic_ ) or drinking coffee, sitting on old couches and talking. When Alex enters, a few people look up and regard him with something that he deems  _skeptical interest_. Suddenly, he isn't sure what to do, so he puts his bag down and says,

"Hey, I'm Alex Hamilton."

A few professors nod politely, introduce themselves. 

Well, that's that. 

Alex pours himself a cup of burnt coffee from the coffee maker next to the fridge, inhaling deeply. The smell of cheap coffee always reminds him, in a strange and abstract way, of bureaucracy. Drinking styrofoam cups of pitch-colored liquid in the social services building, standing in the kitchen of anonymous foster parents, drinking shitty instant coffee because he needed something to do with his hands. Making and drinking endless burnt coffee, for no other reason than to distract himself from indifferent social workers and foster parents only in it for the stipend. 

"Alex, did you say?" 

A tall, rakishly handsome guy wearing a maroon blazer extends his hand to Alex, simultaneously sliding a bagel into the toaster. 

"That's right."

"You're the new blood, then." He gives Alex a swift up-and-down, and smiles broadly. "I'm Lafayette. I teach international politics, emphasis on Africa and Western Europe." 

Alex isn't sure if Lafayette is a first or last name, but he doesn't ask. Lafayette seems easygoing enough, and his smile is open and bright. 

"Today was your first lecture, wasn't it?" 

"Yeah." Alex pours sugar into his coffee, then catches Lafayette's raised eyebrows. "I like it sweet."

"No kidding," Lafayette says. His voice is slightly accented—French, Alex thinks. It comes out strongest on the ends of words, anything with an -ing or vowels. Sounds like the speech that Alex grew up hearing, and something in it strikes a chord deep within his chest. 

"The first lecture was pretty good. Kids are hesitant to participate, I guess. Hang back until someone takes a risk and actually answers my questions." 

"100-level class?" 

Alex laughs. "Yeah."

"Your first teaching position?"

"That obvious?" Alex tries hard to keep the embarrassment out of his voice. Lafayette is young, probably mid-30s, and seems a lot like the kind of guy that Alex would have had great conversations with at the local dive bar in college. In comparison, Alex feels like an awkward freshman going to, like, office hours for the first time. Trying to make a good impression.

"Not at all." Lafayette looks through the fridge, takes out cream cheese. "On the contrary, I'm certain that you will do exceedingly well here. Besides," he continues, leaning in close to Alex and speaking in a conspiratorial tone, "I'm sure that I don't have to point this out to you, but a face like yours is a pretty welcome sight around this place."

Alex glances around at the other professors: mostly men, mostly older, all white. 

"Yeah," he says. "No kidding."

Lafayette licks his knife clean before rinsing it under the tap. "Hey, me and some of the other younger professors, we go to this place called Schuyler's after work. It's pretty much a dive bar, but drinks are cheap and the guy who owns it used to work at the college. You want to come tonight?"

"Sure." Alex hears the excitement edge into his voice—the same way he'd always sounded as a kid, when his older brother asked if he wanted to come and hang out outside the corner store with the older boys—but he doesn't care. He exchanges phone numbers with Lafayette and promises to meet him at the bar around eight or nine.  

He leaves the faculty lounge feeling acutely successful and a lot more satisfied than he had when he walked in, and it's only due in part to the obscene amount of caffeine that he's drunk in the past fifteen minutes. Yorktown University doesn't really feel like  _home_ yet, but Alex has a distinct impression that soon this campus might be a lot closer to home than he's ever gotten. 

* * *

 Schuyler's is a narrow, dimly-lit place fronted by a neon sign. It's only a few blocks away from the university campus, a ten-minute walk. Alex catalogues the brownstones and storefronts near the college, feeling strangely at home as the neighborhood becomes increasingly rougher. Schuyler's straddles a border between the nicer part of town and the streets that students probably avoid at night. It's familiar to Alex, though, and reminds him of being a teenager made brazen by darkness and 40s of PBR or Natural Light or Coors or whatever someone's older brother bought at the liquor store while they all hung around outside and tried to act older than sixteen. 

He steps through the front door and is immediately accosted by Lafayette, who slings an arm around Alex's shoulders and urges him towards a booth at the back of the bar. It's not crowded; there are a few people drinking at the bar, some guys watching a Mets game on T.V. 

"Everyone, this is Alex." Lafayette slaps Alex's shoulder. Alex slides into the booth, waving awkwardly with one hand while Lafayette shoves a pint into the other. "First round is on me, to welcome you to Yorktown. I'm assuming that you drink shitty beer."

"Of course." Alex drinks deeply, a distraction until Lafayette starts introducing everyone else.

"This is Hercules Mulligan—" he indicates a clean-shaven guy wearing a button-down shirt and leather jacket, "—fellow Poli Sci professor,"

"Call me Herc. Seriously."

"—and this is Thomas Jefferson—" Lafayette slaps the shoulder of a handsome man wearing a maroon blazer, "who we all call Jefferson. There's a story behind that one."

"There isn't." Jefferson says smoothly. "There used to be five guys named Thomas in the International Studies department. I was the youngest, so everyone started calling me Jefferson and the name stuck." 

"You really know how to spice up a nickname, man," Lafayette rolls his eyes. "This is Madison—we call him Madison for the same reason we call T Jeff  _Jefferson_ —and Sam, and Charles."

Madison shakes Alex's hand. Sam and Charles seem a little more distant, both leaning towards each other to speak in low whispers. It doesn't seem like they're talking about Alex, so he lets it go. 

"This place is great," Alex tells Lafayette as he tilts his glass back, beer sliding down his throat. "It's awesome to see so many young professors here."

"Wasn't like this a few years ago," Lafayette replies. "Used to be only me and Herc in the department, and we kept to ourselves a lot." 

"We gotta stick together, you know?" Herc shakes his head. "Yorktown is a great school. I love teaching here. But it can be hard, Alex. Most of the tenured professors are white guys in their fifties and sixties, real old-school."

"I can't tell you how many times people have called me Lafayette," Jefferson adds, and even though he's smiling he shakes his head. "And then when I ask them if they think all black guys look the same, they get defensive." 

"Seems like a pretty white, male faculty," Alex says a little cautiously. He's pretty sure that trash-talking Yorktown's hiring policies isn't a good move right now, not even twenty-four hours after his first day of work. 

"You can thank Dean Frederick for that." Lafayette mutters darkly, staring hard at his pint glass. "George advocates really strongly for tenured professors, but a majority of those guys are older white dudes. Most of the faculty of color are adjunct, like me and Herc." 

"To be fair, scapegoating George isn't helping anyone." Sam adds. He's staring hard at Lafayette. "In fact, he's done a lot of good for the college."

"All I'm saying is that if he advocated for  _everyone_ as much as he does tenured faculty—which is a majority white, majority male—we would be working in a much different place."

 

Sam shrugs; Lafayette and Herc make lengthy eye contact, having a conversation that Alex can only interpret as pretty exasperated. 

"Um." Alex isn't eager to jump into a tense situation—there's obviously some kind of backstory here that he'll probably find out later, and probably when Lafayette has drunk a lot more than a pint—but he's seeing a pretty good opportunity here. "Speaking of hiring and firing, anyone know what's up with this whole Keen thing?" 

Lafayette coughs; Herc clears his throat. Everyone shifts a little uncomfortably. 

"It's not a big deal, Alex." Lafayette stares at the rim of his glass. "Professors come and go, Keen was pretty close to retiring anyways."

"Oh, sure." Alex can't help but feel like he's fucked up, said too much, offended his new coworkers. "I just meant—um, I wondered, Washington mentioned..."

"What did Washington say?" Lafayette says quickly. Herc kicks him under the table, a violent gesture that catches Alex's shin in the process. 

"Nothing. I mean, he said that given the 'nature of the whole Keen incident', or something like that. Not verbatim, but..."

"Well, he meant it." Herc says quickly and smoothly. "It's nothing."

"Everyone's just still surprised. Really." Lafayette drinks more beer. "Keen had been teaching at Yorktown for decades. And sometimes faculty just get fired."

"Sure, sure." Alex drinks the last of his beer, mostly in an effort to shut himself the fuck up. 

"Anyways, anyone know if Angelica is showing up tonight?" Herc says hurriedly. The hasty change of subject isn't lost on Alex, who is getting the distinct impression that there's something more to this whole Keens ordeal than Lafayette is letting on. He doesn't press it, though, especially when everyone starts talking about getting another round of drinks.

"This one is on me." Alex stands up. "For being so welcoming. It's great to have great colleagues, and I can tell that's exactly what you guys are, so. Drinks on me."

He's pretty short on cash right now, but figures that this is worth it. Alex goes up to the bar and leans against the smooth wood. The bartender is bent over, but straightens when Alex approaches. 

For a moment, his breath catches in his throat a little. She's strikingly beautiful, the kind of face that isn't easy to forget. Very long, very straight, very black hair. Sharp dark eyes, lips pulling into an easy smile. 

"What'll it be?"

"Um." For a moment, Alex forgets how to order drinks. "A round for, uh, that table. Over there." He gestures. Her smile widens.

"Oh, you're with the Yorktown guys?" She's grabbing pint glasses, filling them with practiced ease.

"I'm an adjunct professor at the college now, actually." The words  _adjunct professor_ still feel awkward and foreign when Alex is describing himself. "Guess that makes me one of the Yorktown guys, technically."

"Nothing technical about it." She smiles again, gaze meeting Alex's. His heart jumps in his chest. "I'm Eliza."

"Alex."

She extends her hand over the top of the bar and they shake. Her palm is cool, dry. 

When Alex brings the round back to the corner booth, the conversation has turned to a rowdy discussion of some faculty meeting where someone named Angelica had, in Herc's opinion, "thrown mad shade" at Dean George Frederick, but "in a totally academic way, so it was really justified". 

He's almost done with his second beer, content to just listen to Lafayette and Herc talk—they're magnetic, hilarious, spinning inside jokes and referencing things that Alex wishes he understood—when Eliza slides into the booth next to him.

"How's it going, boys?" She leans against the table, smiling widely at Lafayette and Herc. "Angelica said that she's coming by later."

Herc mouths  _thank God_ at the ceiling. Alex is going to ask who Angelica is when Eliza leans in close, flashing that sharp white smile at him. 

"So, Alex, what's your deal?"

He can smell her perfume, clean and floral. 

"Um. Graduated from Columbia last year, just got hired at Yorktown, today was my first day." Alex is silently willing her not to press him further, look for some kind of where-you-from story.

"Columbia, huh?" Eliza gives him a swift, ascertaining look. "I'm impressed."

"You shouldn't be," Alex says quickly. Then, realizing that deprecation probably isn't really attractive, he amends: "Or maybe you should be. I don't know."

"I am." Eliza looks down, then up again. "I'm not easy to impress."

Alex swallows hard. He watches her run her tongue over her bottom teeth, wonders briefly and luridly what it would feel like if she bit down on his neck, just hard enough to leave a mark. 

"Uh, so what's your deal?" Alex hastily drinks more beer, feels it run light and electric through his veins. 

"Well, I'm a bartender." Eliza's dark eyes are glittering. "This is going to sound, like,  _such_ a trope, but my dad kind of runs this place." 

"So you're a Schuyler?" 

Eliza laughs, the sound going straight through Alex's alcohol-haze. 

"Something like that, yeah." Then her hand is on his shoulder, a warm weight, and she stands up. "Gotta get back to the bar. It was nice meeting you, Alex." 

Her hand lingers on his shoulder for a moment longer than it probably strictly necessary, and then she's hurrying back to the bar, waving as a few guys wearing denim jackets and baggy jeans come through the door. 

"Ayyyye," Lafayette murmurs in Alex's ear, nudging him hard in the side. "You and Eliza, huh?" 

Alex forces a laugh, shrugging. "I don't know, man." 

"You should go for it." Herc raises his eyebrows, staring at Alex over the rim of his pint glass. "You know, if you're into that." 

The implication is pretty clear. Alex doesn't feel like explaining the nuances of his sexuality, so he just smiles and says  _guess we'll see_. But as he's leaving the bar later, Eliza waves at him and winks, and he waves back and feels a thrum of something deep in his chest. He walks home under the haze of streetlights, a little drunk with the bittersweetness of something that he cannot name. 

 


End file.
